Page 44 of The Picasso Heist
At the last second he holds out a case that’s identical to the thief’s, this one with Wolfgang’s fake inside it. They exchange cases, and the handoff is seamless; no one breaks stride, and we both come out the other end of the alley in view of another security camera.I’m gaining on the guy and he knows it, and that’s what the footage will show. He’s looking over his shoulder again and again, and as we approach the intersection, as another camera will show, the cement mixer approaches, an accident waiting to happen.
It happens.
The cement-mixer driver—fortune cookie number 3—hits his horn; the sound startles the thief, who trips, falls, and goes sprawling, sending the case directly underneath the truck’s right front tire, which smashes to smithereens the supposedly priceless Picasso that no one but a handful of players in this game and the few fortune cookies working for them will ever know was a forgery, especially after the police forensics unit pieces together just enough of the remains to see the Echelon serial number, the newly added security measure that the new girl in the valuations department has no idea about.
If you’re having a hard time keeping track of all that, good. Because that’s the beauty of organized chaos.
You’re only supposed to see the chaos.
CHAPTER39
IT’S NOT Acrime scene. It’s a crime zip code.
The cops don’t know where to begin their report. Where the painting was stolen? Where the painting was destroyed?
When I make it back to the Echelon building, the first squad car is just arriving. There’s a large crowd gathered, mostly Echelon employees who have spilled out onto the sidewalk and some lookie-loos who were just passing by. All of them are fixed on the flashing lights and an apoplectic Enzio Bergamo. No one notices me.
Two officers step out of their car. Both have mustaches, but otherwise they’re polar opposites, short and lumpy walking next to tall and lean. Waxman and Bergamo come forward and begin to tell them what happened. I can’t hear every word from the back of the crowd but I can hear enough. A Picasso’s been stolen.
“It’s worse than that,” I announce.
Everyone turns.Nowthey notice me. I’m disheveled and dripping with sweat, and my face is beet red.
Word about what I did has already spread; no one from Echelon can believe I tried to chase down the thief. But that’s nothing compared to the news I give them.
“Destroyed?”
I’m not sure who echoes the word first; it’s a chorus, but Bergamo absolutely says it the loudest. He borderline screams it and then goes full-tilt crazy before I can give the details—which is exactly how you’d expect Enzio Bergamo to react in this situation.
Waxman tries to calm him down while the cops, like two Moseses, part the crowd and approach me. As everyone steps back, they all see it, and the gasps come one after another in a chain reaction.
I have the Picasso with me. What’s left of it, anyway.
Lying at my feet is the crushed case. Parts of the torn canvas are sticking out of the sides with pieces of the shattered frame dangling. Bergamo, on cue, runs to the remains of his one-hundred-forty-nine-million-dollar investment and drops to his knees like Willem Dafoe at the end ofPlatoon.
With all eyes on Bergamo, I quickly look across the street to see if Anton Nikolov’s paranoid addition to the party is still lingering. He’s not. Raincoat man is gone.
Waxman finally gets Bergamo to his feet, literally pulling him up and dragging him away so the cops can talk to me directly. They have questions. Everyone has questions. And I have answers.
The first rule of getting away with anything?
Control the narrative.
CHAPTER40
THREE NIGHTS LATER,I’m back in the living room of Anton Nikolov’s Tribeca apartment nursing a lime-flavored LaCroix and checking the time on my phone for, like, the tenth time in the past two minutes.
“Remind me again,” I say. “Why exactly are we doing this?”
“Because he asked,” says Nikolov without looking at me. He’s over at his bar, laser-focused on making the second bourbon old-fashioned he’s had since I arrived. Blaggy’s not looking at either of us; he’s on the leather couch opposite me watching the Yankees game on mute, the flat-screen as big as the wall.
I make no attempt to hide my frustration.“Because he asked?”
“Yeah,” says Nikolov, dropping a sugar cube in his glass. “We’re doing this because Bergamo asked me to. Any other questions?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Since when did you become such a softy?”
There was a time only a few short weeks ago when I wouldn’t have dared crack a joke like that at Nikolov’s expense. I remember Blaggy jamming his finger in my face, warning me not to even speakto his boss unless spoken to. But that was then. This is now. Now Nikolov’s the proud owner of one of the world’s most valuable Picassos, and he got it for a steal. Pun intended. What’s more, he knows he couldn’t have done it without me, which explains why all he does is smile at my joke about his being a softy.
